The crag of influence in the shit-fossil of verbiage
is none of our concern. Thin ends
of an apple branch so red it calls for poetry. And
we don't answer, being a shift in the weather for others,
a mere failure to meet. The outside is our lives;
even peering out the window is a risk
when it isn't winter
and puppets drag their bicycles below to appeal
whatever judgments we could hardly afford to give.
Only a mood robs the grey lakewater
of being called silver, an "e" drawing something close,
closed. We are a single thumb, lost in translation,
a graft on the speech of a throwaway shoe,
we are rusts that come in circles, drafting
an encyclopedia by our daily buy. A jog up the stairs
and you're lying. Forces, the will, and the weather
balk into a war, clink clink. Nothing calls. It's
a wrong number. Ten-and-a-half years of slumber.
Rote like a long, lone cricket. A lot of talking
in a lot of cellars, now falling away by fader.
*
Needless to say and that's ideal the sound
of the small waves. The door was the opposite.
The sharp part of the national debt.
I defined by its address book,
the emcee's entourage marching on (random
shooting or breeding) insurgencies. We had a tank
in the basement, an explanation in reserve, in the gap
between what
How much skin? As late in history
as possible. These chords mean more than such-and-such. Thousands
lean back in candlelight or fear. A hole in the opportunity
the kind of freedom birds have
is a bit insubstantial. A hat is an instrument
of talking about it. Hopeless rhythm on the lakeshore.
It didn't taste like farmer; should I staunch?
Perhaps the national government hates Cajun food, and wants it removed
from American culture. This would explain
nothing, the swath of ogre-like suspension filling up the corners of the news
site. Wrath was mythical; this is a frigid lack and a
*
notation grasped at. As a lithe old skepticism
once told me, "You can't shaft
an open hand." Meaning, "of
course." Next to this was a rifle
through four intersections until the idea turns sullen.
Ostentatiously covering the missed beat, "there" moves around
at every opportunity, an ant never blown on before.
You can see this in the window, the lark went off
to sharpen his monologue, a violation of who's in the grand
style of con animals. Roof it, splitlip. Eager to please.
Now a deft fiasco to puppet the strings. Believe it holds up,
just not it. Scantily present, without address, the very thought.
Newspapers gag
into a stream. The language
of right turns. One of the elements
was actually at odds with the interlocutor
determined by the structure, if you want to,
or we can go bald and never mention it again.
Stupid angel, stupid vine, your aura is testily indicating
the sharp spin, the sketch of preemption.
*
The price of meat is becoming
voice. People seemed to move too fast,
but that was blink talk, same as stuck
the phrase so solid it's amazing the book,
opened at random, didn't say
"I didn't write a thing."
Solid lapse into memory In highest uncertainty
truisms drove in in droves Folding laundry seems to say
something As is her wont. Won't. Draped
over the trees like skins. Kid outside
the spa salon; he's there. Sharper. Unsold. What a draft time is.
Blow up a border fence, there's wire for another. Rebuilding is scary.
We screw in the elixir.
*
A lapse into fate as if the ears
had been sliced off
all along. When it comes
to the checkpoint,
there are a hell of a lot of stars. Red wine
is incomplete. The price of voice
is becoming meat. Oodles
smudge, relaying the light.
Scrub over loose, crisp as
next door they're trying out
phase politics
on unsuspecting collaborators. Vic Stone
is invented but would be a stand-in
for "whoever:"
not anybody you know
would meet
or an elegance in leaving prison
undefined. Or guess
not.
*
1
The topic was just oozing out. That you need these tiny bananas
can't be said. An imitation bird, as long as new.
Possibility: a question
not availability
of answers. Rehearsal is for a real audience.
From between the propositions.
On an illuminated pine.
Gazing at the junk around eleven.
2
Idvertisement.
He got the whole social significance of it. In his pants.
3
Urgent: not empirical. Filters through
which kinds of art
that hacks
roots.
Soapy
run-in
with the obvious.
Sings
like a gnaw
on the side
that took you.
4
what to say
a silent vowel
Does it involve shaking and training? It's a lost way to the laundromat
and a smokescreen of "if-thens."
Skulking in the lacking words, a grove of you for a lark. It's going to
follow from this that what. Ordinarily it would.
Airstrip goes over. Then grows pensive. Ordinarily.
A festival of resubmissions overtook the system. I saw you then
as prescriptive.
Shadows secured about half of it before their due.
Tricky, that little move to the formally immovable. So
it is in a nutshell! Or else.
You could call it "complete," like silence isn't.
It only took some application before the whole idea was over.
Andy Gricevich is a writer, actor, director and musician living in Madison, Wisconsin. He recently ended his seven-year exile in San Diego, where he studied philosophy and poetry and performed contemporary chamber music and theater. As one half of the cabaret/satire duo The Prince Myshkins, he has travelled the country singing wordy, funny, irate songs at large protests and in classrooms, coffeehouses, living rooms and sheds.